"apotheosis" poems
Sprawl of the nazarene toothslayer,
Nucleotide bombast explosion;
***** of the eftsoon soothsayer,
Pyramid galaxies implosion:
Breathing quintuplicating matrix
Somersault to ceaseless meiosis,
Goldbeating phlanx initiatrix:
Amphimixis apotheosis.
Lifen gyrovagues aerolitic:
And fixate Atlas telescopic!
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 10:55 AM UTC
We've got a red white and blue bloodlust
For the drips
from the slits
in the wrist
Of Ms. Statue of Liberty
Miss America
Covered in capitalist pigs blood
camouflaged as corn syrup
whispering bitter somethings
to the diabetic nation
that broke her sweet-heart
They'll give her something
to fill her wounds
And add insult to
Self-inflicted injuries
in flashes of light
our arrogance
under-shadows
our destiny
She’ll overcome us
in her apotheosis
She’ll come
back around harder
next time
When she finally comes for us
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 7:09 PM UTC
Some of the first mecha featured in manga
& anime were super robots [スーパーロボット _sūpā robotto_],
ultimate, sometimes transforming into weapons
w/ superpowers. They are often one of a kind
products of an ancient civilization, aliens or
mad genius, are usually piloted by Japanese teenagers
& often powered by mystical or exotic energy sources;
Getter Rays, Photonic Energy, Ide, Spiral Power &c.
Sometimes they are formed from
a combination of a few weaker robots;
their abilities described as "quasi-magical";
w/ Miss America becoming less & less
a beauty pageant, it's only a matter of time
before Medusa inherits the mantle;
the revived gods of the ancient world
crossing the rainbow bridge to do battle w/
high-tech monster robots; AI meaning nothing to a flying fist;
Apotheosis, from Greek ἀποθέωσις from ἀποθεοῦν,
apotheoun "to deify"; in Latin deificatio "make divine";
also called divinization & deification;
is the glorification of a subject to divine level;
The term has meanings in theology, where it refers to a belief in art where it refers to a genre;
Defecation is the final act of digestion,
by which organisms eliminate solid, semisolid,
or liquid waste material from the digestive tract via the ****
Humans expel feces w/ a frequency varying
from a few times daily to a few times weekly;
Waves of muscular contraction known as peristalsis
in the walls of the colon move ***** matter
through the digestive tract towards the ******
Undigested food may also be expelled this way,
in a process called _egestion_
Open defecation, the practice of defecating outside
w/out using a toilet of any kind,
is still widespread in some countries,
for example in India, home of the
heroic deities of Hinduism that evolved
from the Vedic era 2nd millennium BCE
through the medieval era, 1st millennium CE
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphorias of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix are pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
May 29, 2019
May 29, 2019 at 11:35 AM UTC
Standing upon a hill, I.
Under black & purple sunwheel.
Standing with sword in right hand, representing morality and righteousness.
Standing with mine own decapitated head in left hand, represting violent and sudden removal of Ego &&& it's prompt reclaimation.
Standing soaked in the blood of the wound as my sacramental rebirth offering and cleansing.
My own next level of Apotheosis.
Kept alive by sheer will & & & magicks.
Headless mystic standing akin to an Autosacrifical Kali Ma.
Standing as Ego.
Standing as Godhead.
I.A.O.
Standing as Headless Warrior.
Omnia et Nihil.
I am become The Other, the Ritual Evolution.
Hail.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 8:41 PM UTC
Well, ol’ boy
stood in the vista, a little lost
but feet finding the pub
nonetheless
that sun tried to make its point
which, though we acknowledged,
we tried to sidestep
clag mud added heavy boots
while loose, happy chat sat
in apotheosis
til a moussaka
and a couple of sublime fish dishes
let us sit down and rest
after miles
these muscles pretend to ache
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 4:31 PM UTC
God did not mean to give me a mouth.
He meant to give me hands, eyes, a heart
but not a mouth.
When I speak something in me bleeds. When I-
I speak, and my eyes fog over like glass.
I can't see you standing there, I'm so sorry. Show me again, where did you put the bread?
I feel like a thing that needs to be forgiven.
I feel so fragile sometimes.
I am trying to understand the
weight of the evil inflicted upon me.
It is heavy. I never understood that 'till now.
I wasn't meant to carry this weight, but I do.
I wasn't meant to speak the way I
so often will, but I do.
What can I say anymore?
I can't write without bleeding. I can't speak without knowing it is a wound. How can I communicate without tearing something open? I'm afraid of shutting up and looking for my language. If I decide to leave behind every word that hurts me, would I have any words left? Will it **** the little bit of connection with people I have left?
Listen.
I hope you forgive me for the little sadness I'll inspire in you.
I am afraid, but don't pity me. I am blossoming and becoming something else.
This, apotheosis, this becoming closer and closer to my own light.
It is a process that requires allowing death.
What must die must die. Allow grief.
I'll leave you with this:
If you slept next to me, it would be
much like sleeping with a letter under your pillow.
Every night, every night...
*"Here I write to you a list of cruelties I am capable of.
May you never forget:
I have made the flower so that it may blossom, and I have made the lamb so that it may eat it.
Blessed be the one willing to become.
Here, the flower. Here, the lamb."
- God*
May 27, 2021
May 27, 2021 at 10:15 PM UTC
*He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.
He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.
His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.
He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.
I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.
Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.
In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.
I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.
My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:
To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Maieutic dreamer, the ecstatic euphoria of cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix is pandemic. Extravagant exorbitances of flirtatious flamboyance and flippantly flighty flit-ness. But what of stint-ness snities? Excruciating exacerbations of laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tediums. Synaptic syntax is fervently intense like a feral phrenic frenzied **** Ruminating humanity’s collective consciousness gives me hysterical deliriums. We’re frenetically febrile, atrociously impetuous impudents who don’t know our id conclusion from our impromptu innuendo juncture. And what of the organizational principles of our subconscious continuums? Do we only dream about dexterous articulation? Can we become the agile acuity we envision or do we wallow in the drifty drivel of dour droll’s dreary? What’s to phatic say about futurity fatidic’s forlorn wanton? We need chutzpah, moxie savvy’s panache. Is there no such thing as a universally acceptable ontological deontology? Probity is as obvious as due yesterday, ethology’s entelechy the omnipresent reward. Elan vital is not subjective, it’s objective. Explicating epiphanies of social contiguity’s prospectus so innate as to be irrefragable. Not perhaps the oligarchies of eclectic synectics, but perhaps the pugnacious audacities of emote to exude aimed imbue. Assay relay’s convey, foray delay purveys inveigh. Perhaps if we are all cogently fecund with our vituperatively vociferous the holocaustial cacophony of our obstreperously abstruse will be just what the grotto grouch gumption ordered. Infusing all with the capability of aspiring to higher powers and yet not forgetting the mystery of self and others. I know I know what an ingratiating sycophant on the introjection. Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity when we all know immunity is Epicurean absurdity, but I already covered that on the phrenic aimed holocaustial cacophony. Seriously of we all enunciate so on the diction of mesomerism's to punctual. Why can’t that be the essence of accidence ambience acoustics, the arbitrational attenuation of actuator's aorist. We are not ethereal, we are corporeally preternatural and the sooner we all learn to respect each other to that the sooner we can get down to the sublimely surreal in oneiromancy’s apotropaic panaceas.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
Intrusive thoughts
Enamoring fiend
Amidst an enchanting euphoric rapture
my apotheosis complex washes away
like knives to my throat
in a deluge of familiar burning healing
How I crave to abdicate Self
Oh unrelinquishing,
(r)
e lusive Soul;
(c)
Abandoning me to languish
In this castigating material existence
Slowly
feeling
My faith wavering
Withering
to the point
of nihility
Layer by layer
Shed my illusions
Shatter my Ego
So maybe I'll realize
Real enlightenment
Because I stopped caring for humanity ages ago.
If misery loves company
How can even I feel lonely
Alone to my thoughts
In a crowd of my peers?
Just keep up appearances ;)
You all look so oblivious with boxes over your heads...
Obscurely I yearn to be lucid
But instead am welcomed
by livid disdain
I just want to watch the world burn
An inferno; more ****** to churn
for my every advance she spurned
don't object my grotesque romance
or squander it in a moment of happenstance;
rather, project a mental image by perchance
Of me pursuing an remembrance
of the past,
in the present; instead of looking forward
to the pen I wield in hand;
Dubiously proclaimed mightier than the sword
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused
-the memorabilia of hope,
the rusty steel of life.
The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.
-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.
When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?
(-from http://www.condition.org/ )
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
Vultures breathe like dragons,
old chalky smoke dissipating into the two story windows.
They silently stalk the curvature of the walls
each step freeing grimy steam,
the constant chugging of a train.
Can’t keep their scarves under control
weaving like salmon up stream,
their stiletto heels making no sound
washed out by typing and keyboard sighs.
Apotheosis (Latin): to become god,
each word in these shelves claim emperor status,
fiction novels start their own scrapbooks
encyclopaedias reach the 5th floor
committing literary suicide.
Don’t keep books open
the words will float away.
Letters will do anything to escape their pages.
History on hierarchy
exploiting the 19th century microfilm
making a hierarchy in the history section,
jamming the 20 cent printers with advertisements.
Riots silently blossom,
hidden in broken globes
from Ecuador to Kenya.
They are uprising
burning the library down.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
Hold on.
I have to clean this up.
I don't want your soles to get cut up by my lack of ambidexterity.
I'm right-handed but I thought I'd try this out with my left
And I'm not as deft with it, especially in the moment, but I thought I'd give it a shot anyway.
It's my fault... I don't know how to juggle.
I'm usually good with rotation but
between the dilation of my eyes and the inflation of my ego,
the sensation of being flippant left me in a painted tuxedo
And it's raining...It's been raining.
I'm not complaining but the paint
is running and bleeding; An apotheosis of Leonid Afremov
needing emotional content to prove I exist.
I don't mean to be like this. I don't want to be like this.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:07 AM UTC
Time is of the deception of immemorial agreement...
People, friends and family will get together time and time again -
To discuss what?!?
Most of the time, they petulantly boast about their own personal apotheosis -
What does this prove?
Where are they going with their abrogated thoughts?
The people speak with impetuous pertinence and achieve absolutely nothing....
An asundering of cryptic thoughts that fell into oblivion -
This is the sole reason why the inauspicious world will disintegrate and become a history book for worlds to come...
When time has come to overlap itself . . .
The world's clock stops. . .
Your heart stops. . . .
Time, the inevitable dimension that will carry on with no remorse
When we are gone. . . .
When I am gone..
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
A lone god, as Shiva, standing upon a rock upon the sea upon the earth upon the tear of the Christ who wandered forever in the bloodstream of the savior of your own debt to darkness.
Standing as the waves crashed upon the wizardly and nostalgic jeans crafted from the dreams you had once when drama and a storm sat dormant in your heart.
Extending one hand towards the North Star, in a salute of desperation and longing to return via apotheosis to the realm of one's own dreamland home.
Desperation, like the thirst of 10,000 beetles who drink blood like golden honey which drips from space like stars that melt and die in the winds whom are the kings of the middle americas.
Kings, like the standing stone.
Shiva, a tear, a stone...Is You or I.
The Stone, remember, is the dream you let die.
The ocean which swallows you all, is the death of nostalgia and hope.
Split the sea with the Trident of Shiva.
You are a God, if you choose.
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
*She’s following you wherever you go.
You can’t escape your own fate.
She will always know.
I can’t think straight.
I’m sinking deeper into my mind.
Forgetting everything.
She’s making me blind.
I'm getting controlled by her string.
Seeing things that isn’t there.
I’m confined in her hypnosis.
Like a world of despair.
She sees herself as an apotheosis.
Looking at your own reflection.
Seeing her evil shadow behind you.
She won’t accept your rejection.
She has control over me with a voodoo.
But she knows I need her.
Together we are the dangerous confusions.
She makes everything I see blur.
She is The Goddess of Illusions.*
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
Purely noumenal or epistemologically maieutic? Existentially transcendental transmogrification, transmute, transude, transubstantiate. Spiritual apercu’s incarnate. Infinite possibilities eidetic prospectus perpetrates incorporeity ideology’s perfectible ontology. Elan vital’s entelechy’s apotheosis. Psychic clarity’s evolutional ascension. Perpetuity’s adamant tenacity. Sentience’s inevitably irrefragable logistical tactician. Preternatural’s ostensibly immortal fecund. Yes, lie with me and I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind with mesmerizingly enrapturing ecstatic euphoria. Sublimely surreal futurity fatidic and decadently arrogant blatant flagrancy. Incorrigible atrociously impetuous impudence, pusillanimous no. Enthrallingly endearing sensually demonstrative flirtatious flamboyance. What’s to extravagant exorbitance portray……… exserted protuberance’s indefatigably indomitable. Sexuality’s infrangibly latent virilities, erotica erectile errantry’s hubris! Feral phrenic frenzied ***** salaciously seductive.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 5:40 PM UTC
Death strode tall
On his midnight stroll
Ticking names off
His unfurled scroll.
Met a man pious
Deep in solemn prayer
Calling for Salvation
To the Father up there.
Met a woman old
Singing chants and hymns
Pleading for Moksha
From this life of sin.
Met a boy kneeling
His head bowed low.
Praying for Jannah,
If He should grant him so.
Death reaped them all
Torn from blood and bone.
Took away their souls
And kept them for his own.
Met the small girl,
Her gaze reaching his.
"Any last prayer?" asked Death.
"Before I plant my kiss."
"Just tell me if the lad
Mine eyes, now his,"
"Will there be," She asked,
"A smile on his lips?"
Death turned away,
From the girl and her soul.
For her name had faded,
From the scribblings on his scroll.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:30 PM UTC
i've spent hours cramped over thesaurus pages and days ignoring warnings to write about the people who make me feel the things i am supposed to feel
i've spent sentences and words and enough knowledge to fill volumes like a life-time credit debt, pouring sentiments and metaphors over people who won't even bother to read how i venerate their actions, their touch, their reactions
how i analyze each detail like ive got a four year degree and student loans to last me until im ninety in How to Make Yourself Sick With Overthinking
i've spent so much time deflecting like a broken pinball machine in the back of an old restaurant, telling anyone who listens that people make me feel human, give me emotions, make me feel real
i've never spent enough time away from instant gratification, reaction, attention, to know who i am without the people that fill gaps in my lungs and ribs, who stitch me up and send me into a field of disconcerted intentions and bad messes
i can't wite much about who i am, how i react, my actions, my touch, my reactions. my soul is based off of the fragments of other souls that have touched me.
and still, i want the words and syllables and poetry.
i want the actions and touches and reactions
i want to mean something to the people that mean so much to me
i want someone to raise me to this compulsory apotheosis
it's impossible i am the only one with emotions bursting inside of them like nightlights and meteor showers
i suppose
i haven't spent enough time thinking how
there is a vain narcissism that encompasses a person who, without people, would not be a person at all.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
I am a seeker of the grail of gnosis,
I have found it deep within, and raised it high above the void.
I am an initiate of Apotheosis,
my light shall emanate without, scorching the world with excellence.
I have opened up the gates of hell,
I have faced the wrath of Choronzon, and kept my mind whole.
I fear not the tolling of the bell,
for my destiny is clear, to seize the immortality of the soul.
© Copyright Mr. James P Machen 26/08/2014 for viewing only. May not be replicated.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
#
Traveling through an ocean-like space
I'm breaking like the waves
I arrive and crush on your shores
crawl into each and every pore
I dissolve into foam
which follows a storm
The storm becomes me
I rage over rock and tree
Devastation as I take
make room for renewal and remake
I brush away home and town
these empty houses, I tear them down
no place left to hide for the hunger
shall these demons come so I can pull them under
Make them eat the dirt they keep feeding to you and me
I will make them swallow and suffocate their glee
And when darkness comes I will be thunder
lightening the sky and breaking it asunder
And through this opening you will descend
everything that has been broken you can mend
Don't despair, love, take pride in me
The force of nature you clearly see
Believe in this inner symbiosis
Create your own apotheosis
Everything is well
Even in these dark times in which you dwell
This nature will never leave you
nor will it ever betray what is true
See through the eyes of your keeper
even when you think you can't sink deeper
What you are you shall hold dear
and walk this blackness without fear
Whatever wounds you carry away from this tourney
it's worth every step of this journey
Fight until your blood runs dry
pick up your worth again and again until you die
no need to run, no need to hurry
believe in your nature and don't worry
Sleep will come eventually
until then rage against life's brevity
You stand unbowed and unbroken by your ache
and leave life in your wake
#
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
**** if I know.
I scarcely understand much anymore.
I am but a puddle of coherent reminiscences
oozing across the floor into decoherence and
diffusing into maximum entropy.
We are in Hell:
all is Maya,
all is Mara,
all is Dukkha.
Yet, we are slaves
who love our chains.
And I am a lifeless, fetal,
**** economicus,
mortifying de rigeur
in the ossified skull of a
long forgotten **** sapien.
If only those kinship instincts could've
survived the havoc we've wrought.
Look at what we've done.
Look at what we do.
**** for money.
**** for oil.
**** for land.
**** for 'justice.'
**** for God
**** for 'the cause'
**** for the sake of killing,
and pave over what's left.
Leave a few trees and bushes for our
dystopic terrarium.
'Our Synthetic Environment,'
old Murray[1] called it.
Now, walk into the forest.
Be there. Stay there.
Do you feel it?
Any of this nonsense we call
'civilization'?
Or
is it that you feel something more. . .
poignant?
More true?
To a point where our heated debates
appear as no more than frivolous diatribes?
When do we stop all this narrative solipsism
and get to the ******* point?
None of this is real.
Our thoughts are not our own.
Have they ever been?
The Spectacle [2] reigns supreme
as we idle spectators
speculate idly upon it.
Borges's fable of the cartographers [3]
has reached its apotheosis,
and we are its unwilling
and unwitting victims. . . .
Jan 13, 2021
Jan 13, 2021 at 2:01 AM UTC